


Power & Control

by confidence_in_sunshine



Series: I've been dancing with the devil, I love that he pretends to care [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16567412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confidence_in_sunshine/pseuds/confidence_in_sunshine
Summary: It feels like forever ago when that first stab of infatuation blossomed within her. No matter how much time passes, the pain and torment of it still linger. Captured within the strings of her heart and clawing at it until there is nothing left. She’s still angry about it, but Zelda tells herself she’s got it under control.





	Power & Control

It feels like forever ago when that first stab of infatuation blossomed within her. No matter how much time passes, the pain and torment of it still linger. Captured within the strings of her heart and clawing at it until there is nothing left. She’s still angry about it, but Zelda tells herself she’s got it under control. And she does, in her own misbegotten way.

She can talk to Faustus Blackwood easily, as if she doesn’t feel every single inch of her own skin crying out for his touch, as if her lips don’t tremble every time he places a perfectly innocent kiss upon her forehead when they depart. It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to know that he’s slept with nearly every witch in the coven, and she tries not to questions herself: “why not me?”.

It doesn’t take her long to figure out the answer: Edward. Her brother is trying to be noble and protect his little sister. This just makes her fume even more. Just because he is happy to be alone doesn’t mean she has to be alone. It’s not fair. But she takes some comfort in the fact that her sister is also alone. Which is juvenile, she knows, but there is a part of her that has never stopped being sixteen.

* * *

One day, when Zelda is much older, yet still looking like she only turned thirty-five, Hilda comes home with rosy cheeks and an air of infuriating cheerfulness. Practically bouncing into the kitchen, she giggles before she starts to chatter away about any asinine thing she can think of. Zelda feels her fingers twitch, wanting to reach for the knife block so she can cut her sister’s throat and pull her vocal cords out.

“Hilda,” she snaps, slamming down the newspaper she’s been trying to read. “Can you please stop your infernal caterwauling before I stop you myself?”

Hilda grins sheepishly and rocks on her heels in that childish manner that drives Zelda to murder.

“Oh, well, I’ve been seeing a man.”

“They do exist, sister,” says Zelda, grabbing a cigarette and the holder from the table. The end flares to life before she adds, “You were bound to start seeing them at some point.”

Hilda stifles a snort and comes towards the table, her breath coming out quickly in her induced excitement.

“Um, no,” she says. “Um, I’ve been seeing him - like he’s been courting me, you know?”

Zelda just stares at her sister, taking a long drag of the cigarette before she reclines back into the chair.

“No, I don’t know, Hilda,” says Zelda. “Are you sure? You’re not confused like that incident with the milkman?”

“No-o,” says Hilda, drawing out the syllable. “And it was an easy mistake to make, Zelda.”

“It wasn’t, not really,” says Zelda, holding the cigarette by her shoulder, her right elbow cupped in her left hand. “The man was just doing his job. Just because you always answered the door and spoke a few words with him it suddenly meant you were betrothed.”

“I thought he liked me.”

“He was doing his job.”

“He was nice to me.”

“I’m nice to Vinegar Tom, that doesn’t mean I want to f-”

“Zelda!” Hilda cries, her face flushing. “I’m not a dog. And he likes me, he really does! And I’ve been seeing him for a while and well-”

“What do you mean?” asks Zelda quickly, the words flying out in a shot. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Um, well, I didn’t want you to be well, how you are being now,” says Hilda, her face screwing up with emotion. “And I don’t appreciate it, Zelda, you never let me have anything. And he wants to come to dinner, and meet my sister and well…”

She trails off and Zelda simply takes another drag of the cigarette before letting the smoke out in one luxurious breath. If her little sister wants her to meet this man, then she will.

“Fine.”

* * *

 

It’s not until a few nights later that this man shows up. He’s decently dressed and reasonably attractive, if a little on the plump side, and so Zelda wonders what on earth he sees in Hilda. He’s polite and positively chatty the whole evening, which bores Zelda to tears. It’s not until he asks about their family that Zelda realises, that this man is just that. A man. He’s not a warlock as Zelda had assumed. He’s a mortal. Her own sister had brought a mortal to dinner.

As the night wears on, she learns that this mortal is nothing more than some butcher. Hilda had started talking to him whenever she would go into town and purchase food for the week. Next thing, this mortal is taking Hilda out to dinner. The fork Zelda holds in her hand nearly snaps in half with the force of her anger. How dare Hilda find someone, and not even someone of her own kind? How could Edward try and keep her, Zelda, away from any man that she might have an affinity with - who is someone of importance within the coven - and let Hilda fool around with some mongrel. It was degrading. Disgusting. Utterly maddening.

Hilda leaves the table, flushing head to toe from the compliments of this mortal about her cooking, and goes to fetch tea and coffee. Zelda just leaves the man at the dining table and retreats to the parlour. Not bothering to look behind her. Not even looking at the man when he follows and sits next to her on the settee. He smiles keenly at her, his eyes shiny in the candlelit room.

“It’s a nice place you have here, Zelda.”

“Miss Spellman.”

“Ah, sorry, pardon me, Miss Spellman,” says the mortal, all kindness and keenness that just makes Zelda want to vomit. “Hilda says she’ll miss it when she moves in with me.”

It’s at that moment that Zelda feels the world slip a little. Hilda is not going anywhere. If Zelda has to be alone, then so can her stupid sister. She turns her attention to the man, whose smile is still plastered on his face. So keen to make friends with the sister of his Hilda, so desperate to try and fit in amidst the expensive furniture in this large house. She can see it in his eyes, he wants to impress the sister of the lady he’s courting; prove he’s worthy of her. That he can take care of her. Zelda knows he can’t.

So, she just smiles and says, “Actually, you can call me Zelda,” as she hears the sound of Hilda bustling merrily in the kitchen.

The mortal clearly seems to delight in the fake smile stretched so perfectly across her face. It’s a practised one, and many quick witted men had failed to spot the falseness behind those red painted lips. So this mortal certainly won’t figure it out. He doesn’t have much time to think anyway, because suddenly his mind isn’t his anymore. It’s like he’s watching from afar, seeing his body lunge for the redhead and try to touch any bit of her he can get. And then Hilda is coming into the room and the perfectly arranged tea and cake she’s prepared go crashing to the floor. Hilda can’t move, her face is white, and her heart is breaking at the sight of the man she loves clawing like a lust filled teenager over her sister. All she hears is her sister yelling, telling the man to get off her. There’s the sound of Zelda’s skirt being ripped and she screams again. Hilda doesn’t know that the yells are false. That behind the screams Zelda is laughing. It doesn’t even occur to Hilda that her sister could so easily overpower the mortal and get him off her. But she’s not thinking straight. Which is what Zelda counted on. Poor, overemotional Hilda.

So, Hilda grabs the fallen tea tray from the floor and whacks the man hard over the head. She’s crying and she hits him again, even though it’s clear from the way his head has cracked on the corner of the unlit fireplace that it’s over. Hilda just watches the blood seep across the bricks of the fireplace and into the rug as the clock chimes the hour.

After a moment, Zelda will stand up and tell her sister to be quiet. And Hilda will slowly stop sobbing before she shuffles out of the room. The body will be dragged down to the basement and cut into manageable pieces. And in a few nights, Zelda will give her sister what she wanted: the mortals heart. Cooked to perfection and utterly delicious.

It’s cruel and unfair but Zelda is realising that if she wants anything, she’s going to have get it herself. She isn’t going to sit around and let Hilda drag their family name through the mud, not knowing that in a few decades their brother will do just that. But for now it’s enough to keep her sane. As a child of night she knows that the Dark Lord would be proud of what she has done, protecting the coven from exposure.

In what seems like a matter of moments, her triumph over her sister will fade. And she’ll be stuck back at square one. It’s not too much later that the sisters are back to normal. Hilda doesn’t go to town anymore, they get everything delivered. And then they get another delivery - Ambrose. That keeps Hilda occupied, for the most part. But Zelda is bored. There’s a war waging out there, but she has no care for the idiotic tantrums of overgrown schoolboys. Especially mortal ones.

But when news reaches that they have a new High Priest, things really do change. Edward Spellman is High Priest. It’s a joyous occasion and Zelda feels that her family is finally being recognised for their devotion to the Dark Lord. And she will stand proud by her brother, ready to be by his side and do everything she can to help him follow the path of night.

Things don’t go as planned, however. Edward has always been different. More like Hilda in some regards. Too soft, too open to differing opinions. Sometimes she wonders whether they are the stronger for it - having their controversial opinions. She dismisses it. But the thought niggles, because Edward is charismatic, charming. He says things and people listen. There’s the feeling that something is going to change and it happens quick, before Zelda can even process what has happened. There will be no Feast of Feasts. Ever. No killing of mortals unless a dire situation. Zelda worries, she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t dare. However, her tongue is looser than she thinks. And when she visits the Academy of Unseen Arts one sunny afternoon, she visits an old friend. The friend that got married not too long ago (and how she has tried not to think too long on that) and still holds all her attention. Like she told herself all those years ago, she’ll build her walls up. She won’t let him in. How can she? She doesn’t trust Faustus Blackwood much, but she wants to. Desperately so.

A knock and then there’s the doors swinging gently open as he bids her to come in. They shut behind her with a soft click.

“Lord Blackwood.”

“Miss Spellman.”

“Zelda, please,” she says, with a smile - a genuine one. It makes her curse her ridiculous feelings. “There is no need to be so formal, I hope?”

There’s that smile again, the grin of a tiger, as she steps into his office. “I think not, Zelda. I was merely being courteous in respect to your brother - our new High Priest.”

And there is a slight edge to Faustus’s voice. She hears it, he isn’t happy to have had his student surpass him. It should be a testament to his own skills as a mentor but really, it’s a sharp kick. Zelda doesn’t care, she knows her brother. They don’t tend to listen to his words, but the tone. They follow where he goes - it's already started.

“I do not always agree with the protestations of my brother.”

An arched eyebrow in response to this, which is expected. It’s a risky thing to say, and a risky man to say it to.

“Do you doubt the Dark Lord, Zelda?” A furrowed brow as he leans over the desk. “Because to doubt the High Priest is to doubt the Dark Lord.”

“Of course I do not doubt,” says Zelda, her back straight and head high. “But Edward speaks of mortals as being our equals and I find that it disturbs me.”

A moment goes by but it feels like an age.

“I’m afraid while I must agree with you, it is unnerving to hear it said aloud. I’m surprised to hear you say it, Zelda. You have never struck me as one to speak without thinking.”

She asks what he’ll do about it, her minor transgression. Lock her away in an oubliette for the night? Send her to the pits for a few hours to listen to the screams of the damned? But it’s none of these, he simply says something about a mortal punishment, for it seems fitting. Confused, but happy to oblige in what seems like a strange and unusual punishment, Zelda lets herself be gently guided to stand in front of his desk before she’s pushed down and the skirt of her dress is pushed up around her waist.

It’s mortifying, not being able to see and to feel that he’s clearly looking at her backside. There’s the pride that rises within her chest, because she always take care in her appearance, whether it to be her clothing or the delicate pieces of material that lie underneath. She knows her stockings are fine and that her underwear is shimmering black lace. But her ego takes a blow the second his hand makes contact with her backside and she stifles the urge to cry out. It’s more surprise than anything. For the fabric softens the blow - for the moment. It’s twenty hits later when she’s pressing herself against the desk, her teeth clamping down on her hand so she doesn’t make a sound. It’s not the shame of being sprawled across his desk that makes her want to scream, nor the fact that she omitted to being doubtful of her own brother - of the High Priest. It’s the fact that she has her legs squeezed together and she’s trying not to let him know that she’s enjoying it. Because she doesn’t want him to know that it’s not a punishment for her. Yes, she deserves the pain. But his hands are still touching her and in her twisted heart that’s all she cares about.

After, she’ll thank him. Making sure to look him in the eye. Showing she isn’t scared. She’s a Spellman after all. And once again, he’ll just grin like a tiger.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write in present tense but it was a fun little experiment!


End file.
